


strange, marvelous words

by fais_do_do



Category: Prospect (2018)
Genre: A bad Spotify playlist, Childhood Trauma, Ezra is a good whatever he is, Father-Daughter Relationship, Found Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Poetry, Ranier Maria Rilke, Sick Character, Tumblr: fais-do-do-writes, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-19
Updated: 2021-03-19
Packaged: 2021-03-28 19:15:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,650
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30144318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fais_do_do/pseuds/fais_do_do
Summary: She was heat sick, that was all.Or, Ezra watches over a sick Cee. Cee learns to be watched over. And, of course, poetry.
Relationships: Cee & Ezra (Prospect 2018)
Comments: 17
Kudos: 40





	strange, marvelous words

Ezra was keeping a very close eye on her.

She could feel his attention, even those small glances, as she sat heat-tired under the frame of their ship. She’d been standing _with_ him as he traded words with their employer, had been trying to offer support by simply being there; she imagined that’s what partners did, after all.

She’d been too hot to offer anything useful to the conversation. Her mouth had been too dry to even form something comprehensible, compelling. If she had tried, she imagined, she would have croaked like some marsh-creature.

Ezra must have noticed her discomfort – the heat was _incredible_ , the rays of the sun, unbroken, were _relentless_ – for his hand had suddenly landed on her shoulder, pulling her attention.

“Catch some shade, birdie. Leave this unpleasant talk to me.”

She had wanted to refuse, had started to form a physical rebuff – a jerking shake of her head – when she felt herself listing. Ezra had looked down at her, eyes soft, and had righted her with a slight tug, had jerked his head toward their rock jumper.

“But – “ She’d managed to form even as she prepared for the short walk, a final rebuttal. He’d shaken his head, unhooked the cool-canteen from his belt and handed it to her. His instructions had been painfully clear.

“Go on.” He’d said, even as their employer – she had given him a final, searing glare as she turned away - had tried to interrupt, tried to continue this talk of points and his unfortunate lacking.

Her body had complied, sluggish and spent. 

Now, she sat there, watching, feeling particularly _useless_ but too tired to care much about it. It was their first job and here she was lazing about. She knew, logically, it wasn’t a true thing, but she’d grown up understanding that any moment spent in a state of inaction was time lost - points lost.

Not that there were points to _lose_ ; the job was complete, should be considered so if it weren’t for the suddenly tight purse strings of their employer.

Cee continued to glare at him from under the rock hopper. Ezra couldn’t, she knew; he looked tired, himself, but was maintaining the peace with a neutral, thoughtful expression. Their employer was a ridiculous thing. A stout, poor tempered man who’d purchased a job too big for his pockets.

The man gestured wildly as if to implore understanding for his circumstances. Cee didn’t know how he had the energy to expend on such a tirade, though she supposed a local would be used to this heat. He was also more appropriately dressed than they were, kitted in fabrics that breathed, that deflected the heat.

She didn’t know how Ezra was still standing there in the sun, unshaded, and dressed in his dark flight suit. It was, at least, tied at the waist; an awkward challenging thing to accomplish with one and one-half sleeves. She knew, because she’d helped truss it. His simple shirt was dark, as well, and undoubtedly damp.

It made her nauseous, the idea of standing there any longer in cloying clothes. Her own were lighter in color, lighter in weight – she’d never been much for flight suits, the fabric too _thick_ – but they had become sweat soaked all the same.

“I am sympathetic to your ordeal but a job completed requires compensation at the price promised –“ She heard Ezra say, his voice carrying over the desolate stretch of sand.

Even in active disagreement, words hurled with ire, she knew he was watching her.

She blinked heavily, caught his gaze briefly; his brows turned up in a worried arch. Cee tracked his movements as he leaned into the man’s space, his gaze hardened, exhausted by this small, unnecessary conflict and multiple cycles of a labor.

Cee remembered the cool-canteen; hers was spent, hadn’t anything left and the day was too dry for it to extract anything from the air. She released the latch, was surprised to find it was half-full.

“I simply cannot!” The employer shouted as she took a long sip, rolled her eyes over the small drama playing out before her.

She closed her eyes, relieved. The coolness of it was soothing in a way she hadn’t known possible. She remembered, for a moment, how desperately thirsty Ezra had been after waking in Central and she felt a pang of sympathy.

Before she could stop herself, she drained the vessel. Her head already felt less muddled for the effort.

Cee could not hear what was said for sound of her own thirsty swallowing, but it clearly had been enough to end the conversation. The employer raised his hands and stepped back, nodded. Despite his apparent compliance he still looked incensed.

The man turned tail, sand kicking, and Ezra watched for a short moment before making his own departure. He dragged the back of his wrist across his sweat-slick forehead. His hair was matted down and, if not for the healthy flush of his skin – heat touched as it was – he could have been mistaken for that sickened, dying version of himself in the Black.

It set an uneasy stir in her gut even though she knew it to be a false thing.

“What’d you say?” She asked as he settled next to her with a tired collapse; her voice was rough, raw, but the brief respite, the water, had restored it to being audible.

“I gave him until next cycle to come up with the remainder of what was agreed upon.”

“What if he doesn’t?” She asked dryly as she tilted her head to look at him; he had let his head fall back against the ship’s bracer, had his eyes closed.

He swallowed, throat bobbing.

“He will.” She knew enough to understand what was _not_ being said; she was certain some intimidating ultimatum had been delivered. Ezra was very good at that.

She trusted they would get their dues, even if this had all been one long headache.

 _Headache_.

The thought made her realize how ferociously her pulse was pounding in her ears, her chest, her _legs_. How it felt as though something had tightened, vice-like, around her skull.

Ezra, as usual, was watching, even when he wasn’t.

He took a deep breath, picked his head back up and looked at her.

“Let’s get you inside, lest you bake.” Ezra said as he dragged himself up using the bracer as support.

Cee groaned; though the dry heat was a terrible thing, the shadow of the rock jumper had cooled her significantly. It felt harmless – _right_ – to languish under its protection.

“Come on, now. Up.” Ezra said as he held his hand out to her.

She stared up at him for a moment, tired, before reaching up to take it.

He pulled her up with ease; the sudden movement made her head swim, filled her mouth with the sour of nausea. _See_ , she wanted to say to him, _I was fine right there._

“Whoa, there.” She heard him say, her vision a little gray at the edges, her heart a rapid thrill in her ears. She felt his arm reach around her side, bracing her as he pulled her into his side; she imagined he would have done it differently had he been two-handed.

She slumped into his side, under his arm, hand grasping at the back of his sweat-laden shirt – _gross_ , the thought, before realizing she was just as drenched – and squeezed her eyes shut against the uncomfortable sensation of _spinning._

“Cee –“ He said, and she could both hear and feel it, a low rumble in his chest.

“I’m fine.” She said even as she kept her hand clenched tight. She _really_ didn’t feel at all well. She _knew_ it was the heat, but she’d never experienced anything like it, didn’t know it could make her feel this awful.

“You’re heat-sick, is what you are – “ He said and she could feel his body tense as he gripped her tighter; she _really_ hoped she could stay on her feet.

“ – hold on to me. We’ll take it easy, slow. We’ve got the time.”

“Hnn.” She grunted, focused on keeping her nausea at bay. She opened her eyes and promptly shut them. She’d only managed a brief visual snatch of sand, of Ezra’s boots, before the light sent spikes of pain into the back of her head.

Together they made a slow stumble – her fault, mostly - towards the narrow ramp. Each step made her headache. She could feel each landing in her joints. Each step, each resounding _thud_ beckoned her stomach contents upwards and out.

She swallowed thickly, pressed her face deeper into his side. A wave of humiliation joined in. She felt _pathetic_.

“Almost there. Breathe deep, mind your steps.” Its origin unknown, a spike of annoyance thread through her as he spoke in those hushed tones. She’d never born such concern, not for her physical state. It made her feel seen in a way that made her feel ashamed - unusually small, unusually _weak_.

Cee would rather he push her, prompt her, prod her. She thought she could bear _that_ more easily. She could hear her father, urging her, _Come on, I don’t feel good **either**_ , _Cee_ , and _what do you want **me** to do about it? _and she knew that was easier to deal with.

Easier than _this;_ his careful guidance, the gentle, firm hold that she, to her embarrassment, had accepted like a child.

“Step up.” Ezra said and she forced herself to open her eyes, squinted down at where the platform met bright, golden sand.

She stepped up, found the firm ground amenable, and lurched out of his hold.

“I’m _fine_.” She reiterated even as she felt him stumble for the surprise of it, even as her nausea worsened. She felt light-headed, faint, but she could manage on her own. She didn’t need coddling like some babe, some helpless thing.

She heard him curse, heard him say something that ended with “ – girl.”

He was annoyed.

Well, so was she.

No more than a step achieved, she found herself stumbling again. Her knees hit the deck, then her palms – both sent a horrible shudder through her frame – and Ezra’s one-armed hold was back.

His voice was firm but no less filled with concern.

“Quit it now, girl, or you’ll fall off the damn thing.” She glanced to her left and realized he was right; the ramp was narrow, and she’d almost just stumbled herself off the thing. Cee realized that Ezra, too, was on his knees; he’d likely made his own desperate stumble in an attempt to slow what had looked like a proper fall.

“Sorry.” She said, suddenly miserable.

Though he’d had his moments, even Ezra hadn’t been _this_ difficult when he’d been so poorly; he’d never torn himself out of her grip, had born cycles upon cycles of her attention.

“None of that. Now, let’s get back on our feet, easy –“ Ezra said as he lifted her, again, repeated again – _easy_ – as though she couldn’t be trusted not to bolt.

She felt weak; she’d foolishly used all of her energy on that desperate display of independence. She hated it, being held and supported, but she did not refuse him this time. She let herself, once again, melt into his side, to fall into step with him.

They passed into shadow and were no longer on an incline; they were inside the rock hopper. She opened her eyes again – they were tear-filled, the last jag of sunlight having watered them – and squinted into the soothing dark of the craft. They’d left it dark so they could keep it cool; they couldn’t have _both._

Before it had been an inconvenience, a terminally dark craft; now it felt painfully comforting. Or, it would have been had her stomach not twisted so terribly over the shock of it, the sudden cool.

“Lemme go –“ She twisted away from Ezra even as her hand stayed crumpled in his shirt, “ – m’ gonna throw up.”

Ezra didn’t let her go. Instead, he cursed a low, breathy thing and pulled them quickly towards the refresher. He pushed her forward, braced her even as she fell to her knees. His hand moved, landed on her back as if to support her, to strengthen her.

What followed was immensely unpleasant. Cee retched, threw up the liquid she’d managed under the shade of the rock hopper. Her stomach tightened with cramps, her _legs_ twitched in complaint of her collapsed, bent position. Her head _throbbed_ and it wouldn’t _stop._

Her hair fell in front of her face, stuck to the sides of it; it had gotten longer, was in her way and she sobbed miserably as her stomach contracted again.

She could feel Ezra’s hand move from her back – she hadn’t realized, fully, that he’d remained – and suddenly her hair was pulled from her face with a sloppy sweep. He held it, bunched up, against the back of her neck and the pressure was an unusually calming thing.

Cee couldn’t help it, but she blushed over the shame of this; how Ezra had stood it, _all_ of it, was incomprehensible.

She retched again, even though she had _nothing_ left inside of her. She could feel tears of exertion spilling forth. It reminded her of errant childhood illnesses. Of time spent head-buried in whatever vessels their rented pod offered. Of a voice, unaffected, saying _make sure you clean that_. Of being offered water and, with the luck of a recent job, medicine, but nothing more.

Of being alone and frustrated and _scared._

Ezra was unusually silent, and it made her feel slightly on edge. What was he thinking? He never hesitated to voice his opinions on all manner of things; she couldn’t imagine the reason for such an extended period of quiet.

Her stomach calmed some and moments passed without another bout. She could feel herself trembling; where before she’d been hot and limp, now she was freezing and shaking.

Cee heard Ezra sigh.

She wondered if he was disappointed, even though she _knew_ better. Still, doubt niggled its way in. She’d made it through the job but hadn’t been able to stand the negotiations. Her father would have argued that _that_ was the most important part, not that she’d ever been allowed to submit her own attempts.

“Cee?” Finally, he spoke. His voice was still awfully soft, kind; there wasn’t any _disappointment_ or _anger_ in it and she _really_ should know better by now.

Even so, she had the urge to shrug from his grip.

She almost did, almost pushed his hand away, but it was comforting, _grounding._ It gave her something to direct her attention towards. The stillness of his hold, the gentleness of it. It was better than anything her own body was doing.

No one had ever done anything like this for her before.

“Think I’m done.” She croaked as she spit the taste from her mouth. She still felt weak, shaky. The space between here and the sleeping quarters felt immense; suddenly, Ezra’s actions in the Black had far more _context_.

She felt a spike of guilt for those rare moments of aggravation and annoyance with him, back then. She remembered thinking, distinctly, that he had been acting _stupid._

“No use in rushing a thing if you’re not sure. Give yourself a moment.” Ezra said from behind her, voice filling the now very quiet space. She could hear better, now. Her head still throbbed but she no longer felt as though her pulse was thrumming so loudly that any passing being could hear it.

She nodded, more to herself than him, and took steadying breaths as she closed her eyes. She continued to shake but the tremors came in spurts, now. She still felt miserable, but slightly less so.

“Ok.” She said, simply.

She had the distinct impression that Ezra would gladly stand there and wait, cycles if necessary, for her to give the go ahead. Despite her weakness, her fatigue, she _did_ want to get off the floor and out of the bowl.

“Ok.” He repeated and that calming pressure on the back of her neck disappeared, released her hair back into the messy spread around her neck and face. She turned, carefully, and took his hand.

For the third time in less than a cycle-hour, he pulled her to her feet; this time _very_ slowly.

They made the all-too familiar walk to the sleeping quarters, Ezra bearing most of her weight, and she groaned in relief at the sight of her messy sleeping-spread.

“Alright, birdie.” Ezra said as he eased her down into a sitting position. She sat there, hunched over and shaking.

“You need to get out of those clothes, damp as they are.” He said and, yes, he was right, the cool of the craft was making her miserable in a new kind of way, but, still, she was _horrified._

She dragged her gaze upwards, a serious frown set on her features. She was too nauseous to move, and the roll of her eyes was enough to make her feel sick all over again.

She watched as he looked around their shared quarters, spotted what she’d slept in – folded, neat, on a slice of what had once been another bunk – and placed them at the end of the bed.

“Can you manage?” He asked and Cee nodded, furiously. She rather _die_ than ask for help undressing and dressing. The aggression of the movement renewed all those terrible feelings of dizziness, of weakness, but she steadied herself, swallowed against it.

“Of course, I can.” She huffed, averted her gaze, allowed it to settle on the cloths he’d set beside her.

“Stand out there.” She muttered, miserably; she didn’t need to point, didn’t need to indicate where ‘there’ was. He knew. “Don’t look.”

“I won’t.” He said and his voice was already far-flung, around the corner and in the open space of the craft’s common area.

“I don’t need help. Stay there.” Cee said, desperately; she wondered if _this_ is how he had felt when she’d hovered over his own moments of invalidity. If _this_ was why his tone had held that frustration when she’d tried to help at every turn.

This was hard.

It was humiliating.

For the first time – and, truly, it _was_ the first – she preferred that it would be Damon haunting the doorway. He would have lost interest long ago, would have found a way to keep himself entertained while she recovered herself - a local tavern, she imagined, would have done.

“I hear you, loud and clear. I assure you.” Cee could have sworn there was a little bite there, an exasperation.

Well, if she now knew how _he_ had felt, perhaps he now knew how _she_ had felt when he’d refused the logic of her own care taking.

“Ok.” She said, thought of her former father’s reliable quality of always being _in absentia_. She knew she could trust Ezra to keep his word but this, this was so _embarrassing._

“Promise.” She added, an unnecessary supplement to her former requests.

“Kevva, birdie, I’m not gonna look.” He sighed as he spoke. _Yep_ , frustrated.

 _Ok_ , she thought. Now she was just being avoidant; avoidant of the coltish weakness in her arms, the stomach sick drag that threatened another vomitous episode.

She grabbed the clothing, set it closer, and pulled at the sweat-heavy hem of her shirt. She peeled it off; it felt like removing a layer of reptilian skin that had grown too cloying. The cool air hit her hot skin and made her shiver even more; she almost wished to be back out there, in the Saharn sand.

Quickly, Cee pulled on the shirt Ezra had set down; she was uncomfortably aware that, somehow, there was sand on her person. It scraped against the new, dry cloth. 

She went through the same motions with the loose bottoms.

She tossed the wet clothing on the floor, at the end of her bunk, a frown of disgust settling on her features. They undoubtably smelled terrible, like sweat and puke. She’d launder them later, when she cared enough to do so. Until then, they stayed right there.

“I’m done.” She said, knowing he was waiting. She closed her eyes as she settled into a cross-legged position, as she let her spine collapse. She still shivered, still felt nauseous and terrible, but he’d been right; changing from the wet cloths had been an essential step forward.

Cee heard him enter, a long stride making short work of the crossing back into her territory.

She peered up at him through grainy eyes.

He was looking down at her, head tilted in sympathy, that worried furrow still there. _What_ , she wanted to say, though she knew. She just needed to lay down, to be left to her own devices. She half expected him to say, again, that she looked like shit. Instead:

“Lay down for a beat.” Ezra said in a low rumble, as though it would hurt her to speak any louder.

She swung her legs up as she braced herself through a slow recline. She could feel him hovering, ready to assist. She groaned, rolled over, back to him. She was shaking and she feebly reached for the blanket that she was half laying on; she pulled but her weight had it pinned down.

“You need to cool down, not heat back up.” Ezra said as he gently stayed her attempt to cover herself in a too-thick blanket, a gentle hand on her quaking shoulder.

“’M freezing.” She grumbled; and she was, even _if_ her skin somehow still felt agonizingly hot.

A light cloth fell over her, was tugged up to her shoulders, and she gripped it, pulled it up to her chin. It was light enough that it wouldn’t overheat her, weighty enough to make her feel covered.

 _Thank you_ , she knew she should say, but didn’t.

* * *

He should have been keeping a closer eye on her.

She had done well, initially, with the sun, the heat. He’d made sure their cool-canteens had remained full, had ensured throughout the duration of the job – despite the severe lacking of humidity – that the extractor filters still worked.

He’d made sure they ate, took breaks, communicated.

But still, he’d missed it. The early signs that she was flagging. He hadn’t noticed the severe blush of her skin, the premature emptying of her water supply until it was too late.

Ezra cursed as he pulled two hydration packs from their stores.

He’d been flagging, too, by the end of the job, though not for the same reasons. He knew he was pushing it, engaging in work so physically tiresome, but the price tag – a farce, clearly – had promised them some legs.

It was a terrible excuse and he felt sharp, unrelenting anger towards himself.

Ezra searched, for a moment, for the medical kit. It was one of Cee’s favored pieces of equipment; she took its stock, frequently, though they both knew not a single item had been yet removed.

Ezra found it, tucked under one of the consoles and sighed, shook his head. He’d been hoping they wouldn’t have had to use it – not for a long while yet, at least.

He popped the top – an annoying effort, one-handed – and rifled through the contents, let things spill onto the floor for his lack of grace. Cee would be livid with him.

The kit was extremely well endowed, of incredible quality; her brilliance would never cease to impress.

Ezra found what he wanted, tossed each selection on to the small eating-table before regarding the items. A pack of salts, a couple cool-packs, a thermometer, electrolyte and nausea pastilles.

It was all they could do.

Heat exhaustion.

Sun poisoning, too, more than likely.

He knew its face, had seen it on his home planet, often. It was common amongst those unused to it, those who’d pushed too hard on a hot, sweltering cycle, a mean turn of whatever sun beat down. He’d experienced it a time or two but had never been reduced to the retching portion of the illness.

Ezra cursed himself for being neglectful enough, s _tupid_ enough to let it happen to her.

He couldn’t imagine that she’d experienced a thing such as Saharn. She was a Floater, sure, had likely been exposed to many an environment, but she was also terribly _pale._ She had the complexion of a thing that spent all its time in the Black or under a helmet.

And, she likely hailed from one of the Fringe’s more temperate, subdued climates – Bathos, or Ingla, Kamrea, perhaps - or at least her people did.

He cringed at his own inability to see this coming; her skin had soaked up that punishing sun like a thing to be greedily filled.

She hadn’t transitioned into the terrifying territory that was heatstroke, then, heat- _death_ , but he knew it could have been a near thing; all he felt for himself, in that moment, was anger, loathing. It could go nowhere, so it settled within and set a mean pin inside him, urged him forward.

He grabbed for the items he selected, too much for a single grip; he cradled it against himself and made his way back to her bedside.

Cee was as much the same as when he’d left her, though it had been a brief departure. She still quaked in violent jags; it was a false chill, borne mostly of that violent bout of sickness and a need for good hydration.

“Cee.” He tried, believing her to be awake; he kneeled beside her, let the supplies fall to the floor in a graceless letting go.

She groaned in response, a miserable whimper.

“C’mon, girl. Turn around.” He coaxed gently; she was clearly a being unused to being cared for and it set ire in him for Damon. He rarely felt so for the man – not anymore, long deceased as he was – but it was on occasions like this that his dislike for the man rose and swelled.

She groaned again, a short grunt of refusal.

“Cee – “ He started, used to her stubbornness, used to the thing that made her shy away, “ – you’ve got to rehydrate yourself. I can’t force you to, but I’d appreciate your participation, your trying.”

“I can do it.” She muttered into the cloth she’d tucked under her chin and he fought the urge to sigh; instead he pinched the bridge of his nose, a silent movement that took the place of a deep need to make some frustrated sound.

Ezra was also used to _this_ ; her chronic, teenaged embarrassment. He figured he could forgive her that. Living with him couldn’t be easy, was unorthodox; he had not doubt she was preoccupied with his presence in a time of a deep need for personal privacy.

“Let me help you, please.” He tried, again. He wasn’t suited for this, hadn’t, in all his life, been a man of soft pleas and concern. Though, it came oddly natural to him, this shift into a caring man – a _worried_ one – was a strange thing. It was as though it had always been there, lurking under the surface, waiting.

Even so, he still didn’t always know if the choices he made, the words he chose, were _right_.

It was hard to know that sort of thing, even if they’d learned each other well over their cycles together. It had taken him sidereal _years_ to learn violent men and violent women; he had to be patient, this he knew.

Finally – thank _Kevva_ , thank the _stars_ – she rolled over, faced him with a tired, sick frown. She looked immensely unhappy. He imagined she _was._

He tried to keep that stab of sympathy he still felt at the sight of it from his features, knew she wouldn’t _want_ it, even if it were an earnest thing. Instead, he fixed her with a trusting stare.

“Think you can manage some water?” He asked as he reached for, held up a hydration pack. It was the same as the one he’d managed before Central, a ration pack, a full day’s worth. He was hoping she would be able to bare the strange, stale taste if it meant less to consume.’’

“I’ll throw it up.” She murmured, eyes taking in the package before dragging slowly back to him.

“Then you’ll throw it up. We’ll come to that crossing if it arrives.” Ezra said, a new, low-grade concern building; would she _really_ refuse? He remembered, hazily, being her age. Remembered the authority he had _thought_ he’d had. Remembered the beliefs he’d held about his own capacity to bounce back from dangerous things, events.

 _Please_ listen, he thought.

“You have to try, birdie. This kind of thing, it doesn’t just sort itself.” She stared at him, lips chapped, body shaking; it was with a shocking amount of relief that he watched her arm snake out of her tight curl, reaching.

He couldn’t open it for her, hoped that didn’t matter. He handed it to her, watched, with satisfaction, as she twisted it open and took a sip. She closed her eyes, tight, scrunched her nose.

Ezra knew it wasn’t _pleasant._ It had an unusual taste, salty and stale all at once; it tasted like something left out under a swamp sun.

She pulled the nozzle from her mouth, opened her eyes to glare at him.

“Believe me, I know.” He said, raising a hand to implore her trust over the matter.

He must have appeased her for she closed her eyes, looked as though the packet had transitioned from being unsavory to soothing, but then …

“Whoah, easy, there –“

Before he could stop her, she finished the entirety of the pack, all in a single attempt. He wished she would have taken it a _bit_ slower; she looked thoroughly nauseated.

“And here I was, thinking you didn’t _want_ to get sick again.” He said dryly as he reached for the small blister packet with the nausea medication; maybe he should have brought something should she experience another bout of sick.

She ignored him, as she was want to do, on occasion – often - and whimpered pitifully as she pulled her knees up towards her abdomen.

“Here, hold on. Something for nausea. Under your tongue.” He handed her a tiny pill, and she took it. Her stubbornness died for a moment at the promise of relief.

Ezra watched her for a moment, watched the grimace that formed but she didn’t seem likely to get sick again. He grabbed for the thermometer, frustrated by his one-handed pace.

“Steady.” He warned as he pointed the thermometer at the too-red skin of her forehead; he needn’t invade her space more than he was already doing, the number appeared rather immediately: **39° C.**

He had the information he needed but he couldn’t resist the compulsion to check for himself, hand relinquishing the thermometer in favor of feeling her forehead. He’d never done this before, to anyone, though he imagined – _remembered,_ possibly – someone having once done it for him.

She flinched slightly, opened her eyes – glossy, fevered – at his touch.

“Mmm.” She croaked, groaned. He frowned having expected something more.

“You’re burning, little bird, and I don’t think the coolant coils will serve.” The ship _was_ cooler than what lay outside, but it wasn’t cool enough. She shivered, had caught a chill, but it wasn’t for the temperature of the rock jumper.

She was spent.

“I’ll be fine.” She muttered. She looked as though she may say more but Ezra had been patient enough, had played willing party to her own desire to neglect herself right into _heatstroke_ long enough.

“Enough of that.” He cut into those impending, cyclical motions – her refusal, his fussing - and grabbed for the cool-packs. He squeezed each one, activating them; they cooled quickly under his touch.

“This won’t be comfortable but you’ll have to bear it –“ He cautioned as he gave her a knowing look, gently placed the first on her neck, along that vital carotid line. She flinched, again, but didn’t refuse his placement of it.

“This one, under your arm.” He handed it to her, waited for her to take it. He knew she’d never allow him to do it, not as heat sick and irritated – _embarrassed_ , clear as anything - as she was.

He knew it was half a thing of being heat addled, her poor temper.

“This is stupid.” She said as her hand snaked out of the cover of that light cloth, grasped the pack; she blinked at him, shivered as she presumably did as he’d told her.

“It isn’t –“ He started as he placed the final one over her left temple - laid on her side, it was the best he could manage – and pulled that sheet back up over her shoulder as her shaking began anew.

“ - though, birdie, I’d be remiss to not mention, you know what _would_ be _stupid,_ your words not mine – “

She pulled the sheet up to her chin, eyes peering out at him; she looked painfully sun-touched against the relative shock of the sheet.

“ – having to reel that poor case manager into all this stubbornness.”

“Filipa.” She said, as though he might have forgotten, before fixing him with an unimpressed squint; she knew a threat when she heard one.

“Hmm.” He hummed at her, tilted his head; he knew it was a decent threat, as far as threats delivered to the temporarily indisposed go.

“You’re _way_ worse than I am.” She rolled her eyes as she shook and he felt terribly for it, knew it was an unfortunate part of the process.

“That I am.” He said, certain it was true.

Ezra gave her a small smile, squeezed her shoulder, gently.

Eyes glossed and tired, still, she smiled back.

* * *

Ezra was there when she woke with a start.

Cee sat up, leaned over the edge of her cot and gagged. A bucket – the one they used for the stubborn drip of the older coolant coil – landed under her just in time. She retched again, fluid coming up with a burn.

She could feel tears of exertion, of sickness, make their way down her cheeks; she was miserable. She tensed as her body contracted; she was so _hot_.

“Easy, birdie, relax. Let it happen.” She felt a pressure land on her back, begin the process of rubbing soothing circles.

It calmed and nauseated her all at once.

She couldn’t respond if she wanted to; another bout sent her stomach cramping, her arms, her legs. The world before her swam, undulated; she felt as though the cot were spinning.

“Don’t feel good.” She choked when she found a moment of reprieve. She sunk into the cot, closed her eyes, _shook._

“I know.” Ezra said, somewhere above her. He didn’t chastise her for drinking that hydration pack too quickly, didn’t admonish her for not taking shelter throughout those cycles, as he’d told her to do from the beginning.

She could feel him replacing the cold-packs - they made her flinch, were still cold –

“Alright –“ He said as he placed the last one back over her neckline.

“ – if you’re amenable, I’m going to make full use of this fine medkit you had the good foresight to purchase –“

Cee nodded against the cot. If she were being honest, she’d fully expected to have been using it on _him._ She had never really considered herself in such a position, a need for medical administration.

As it was, with youth, she’d thought herself above it.

“ – a hydro-injection, quick and easy, just a poke on the back of the arm –“

She slid her arm out at his soft request, interjecting his own monologue – _come on, there you go –_ and tried to quell rising nausea. She focused on his voice, let its natural rise and fall distract her.

“ – have had one myself, before. Doesn’t hurt. Makes you feel a little chilled –“

She heard the hiss of the primer, heard the unsnapping of the safety; heard him spit it out, having used his teeth.

“ – a little wet, which is admittedly an odd sensation, but it’s not a thing I would call uncomfortable –“

She felt the plastic press against her skin.

“ – brace yourself, I can’t hold your arm in place –“ He requested and she pushed back a little, applied pressure against the injector.

It hissed as he engaged it; all she felt for it was a strange cooling rush, the swell of her skin at the site.

“We’ll try keeping something down later. Until then, this will hold you.” She could feel the rush spreading through her body; it was odd, but near immediately she felt as though she’d just taken a long drag of water.

She wished they’d had all this, back then, for him.

“You did good, Cee.” The furrow of her brow wrinkled; her nose scrunched. She wasn’t sure what he was talking about. The medkit, maybe. Couldn’t be the job, not with how she’d ended it.

It wasn’t something she thought she’d earned: praise. As usual, she could hear her father’s voice. _This will set us back, Cee,_ he would have said, taking in her state of invalidity.

The thought of him stirred something complicated within.

It was still fresh, the memories of his death, his sudden departure. She still saw it sometimes, mostly in some form of sleep state. She tried not to dwell on it so much, but it seemed unavoidable. She’d mentioned such a thing, to Ezra, once. That she didn’t feel as though it was productive to think about it, that enough _time_ had passed.

He’d looked at her, had told her: _“Time has nothing to do with it, birdie.”_

She thought about that sometimes.

Cee wondered how much time had passed since the injection, since he’d told her she did good. She still didn’t know what she’d done that was so good. She never really _did_ know, whenever she’d been told that in the past.

Sometimes _you did good_ or _good job_ was filled with sarcasm. Was filled with approval. Was filled with nothing at all and was delivered flat as though it were compulsory.

Though, not with Ezra. Never with Ezra. She flinched herself awake, the sensation of falling having struck her.

“Thanks.” She muttered, caught in some limbo between sleep and wakefulness; she felt fitful, odd.

“Of course.” His voice soothed, rumbled low and genuine.

It was so _kind_ and she felt that childish thing that, when fever struck, made one want to _cry_.

“No, not …. thanks.” She reiterated, didn’t have the energy to say what for. She felt bad for her prior behavior, the kind that was made of venom and striking.

He didn’t say anything. Or, if he did, she didn’t hear it.

She was thinking, still, of her father, as she drifted back to sleep.

* * *

Ezra should have stayed by her side.

Ezra walked back into the sleeping quarters – he’d been grabbing additional cool-packs - just in time to see her blearily untangle herself from the thin cloth and try to stand.

She’d been sleeping when he’d left, had looked on her way to comfortable, and he’d thought it a good moment to replenish what he’d used. He’d hoped, assumed, she would stay that way.

Though, if Ezra had come to learn _anything_ in their time together, it was that when he made assumptions about her, he often found himself to be incredibly, stunningly, _wrong._

 _“No. Thanks.”_ She had muttered falling into slumber and it had torn a genuine hole in him. He wasn’t stupid, wasn’t new to her and how she thought. He knew she was thanking him for caring for her; not caring for her sickness, but caring _about_ her.

“Whoah there, little bird –“ He said as he surged forward, forced into choosing – as was now commonplace – _this_ or _that_.

This: the cold-packs.

That: the girl who was about to fall onto the floor, limp-limbed and altered.

Easy, as far as choices went, though, messy in execution.

Ezra dropped the supplies with a quick toss of abandonment, and just managed to catch her as her colt-weak knees gave out. Holding her was awkward, especially as she tried to pull against him; she had somewhere in mind, a destination, no doubt. Whether it was a destination of good, clear sense, he was unsure.

“Where you going, girl?” Ezra grunted as she struggled, and he could feel the fever heat pouring off of her. Her movements were panicked, harried, so he let them drop to the floor in a controlled fall, his grip around her strong.

“Cee –“ He said in a hushed tone as she wakened a bit, the stiffening of her limbs suggesting some new awareness.

“Hot.” She murmured, and he suspected it to be an understatement. Now that she’d settled, had slept some, he imagined the effects of the sun poisoning had really set in – had left her drained, hot, ill in that way sick sleep sometimes made you.

She tried to pull away again and he let her, just enough to allow her some breathing room. For a moment he’d had her pinned against him, worried she would collapse.

“I imagine so.” He said, if only to assure her that he was listening and present. He looked at the stray packs; it wouldn’t be enough, the powerful yet localized efforts of those compresses.

She twisted weakly, groaned something that might have been a plea to be let go – which hurt, of course, but Ezra knew she wasn’t right – and Ezra held fast.

“Cee, look at me.” Ezra was relieved when she did, eyes fever bright, face flushed.

“We need to get this fever down –“ She stared back dully, distressed, as if she knew that but didn’t know how; she looked half lucid and he knew they had to take stronger measures.

“ - and I’m afraid those packs just aren’t sufficient –“ Ezra looked at her, tried to assess her willingness, tried to understand how much of this would be a forced thing; it was a thing he was not interested in doing, _forcing_ her into _anything._

“ – you think you can stand, birdie?” She blinked, her legs were folded under her and she rocked to one side, attempting.

“Ok.” He said, glad that she, at least, was understanding, compliant. A participant to his aide rather than a hostage. The idea of transgressing across the line – easy, with illness that made one altered – was nauseating.

“C’mon, up.” Ezra said, helping her back up. She _was_ more lucid now; she seemed to have shaken that dream state, the one made of things that scared and threatened.

“What’re we doing.” She muttered, her words pushed together into one long drawl by fatigue; still, he understood.

“Going for a quick walk,” He pulled her up gently, let her lean into his side just as before, “and, hopefully, a quick dunk.”

She grunted in displeasure but did not try to form an escape; Ezra was silently grateful.

It was awkward, their shuffle to the refresher. How she’d managed him, much the same, was still a mystery to him. He remembered most of it and he supposed that had been key: his lucidity that had lasted just long enough.

As they walked, slowly but surely, she breathed in quick passes, clearly nauseous, clearly uncomfortable.

It was hard to watch. It was hard _not_ to be angry with himself for not having taken better care. Ezra knew a lesson learned when he saw one, but he was particular loathsome for those that came at the expense of those he deemed genuinely innocent.

He’d been, once, a man whose bad deeds had scattered collateral damage far and wide. He knew that, had forged a partnership with one of those poor souls. But this – this misdeed of neglect was hard to hold, hard to accept.

And, of course, it was indescribable when it came to Cee.

He wouldn’t name it, not yet, but the thing that niggled at the back of his mind was persistent; later, it would have a name: _doubt._

For now:

Ezra imagined that some small part of it was the general habit of a being who’d long spent time in partnership with beings as equally stubborn, self-reliant, _cold._

Of course, he’d been looking, watching, but not carefully enough; he hadn’t been practicing the kind of mindfulness that operated on anticipation. Though, he’d tried. He’d done right as far as supplies had gone, as far as scheduling could go. He’d kept them out of the sun when it had reached its zenith. He’d kept their cool-canteens serviced, filled.

But – he looked down at her flushed face, red and tired, and felt his own small stirring of misery – he hadn’t looked after what had mattered.

He knew, in that moment, that he’d have to try _harder_. That this life of single, acute gains – job to job – would not last long. Not if she were to be truly _cared_ for. He put the idea away for the time being, the worry over it fleeing into deeper mind-space.

They reached the refresher and, as if anticipating the unpleasantness, Cee groaned again, a pitiful rumble against his side. Her weight was getting heavier, the short walk having tired her.

“My deepest apologies, little bird.” He said and he meant it. This could have been avoided.

He helped her into the small space under the water-head, stood out of its range for a short moment, assessing her. She wobbled; her eyes-half lidded in that fevered way. He wasn’t about to leave her to this torture alone.

The space was small, but he managed to tuck himself in.

When Ezra was sure she was going to stay on her own feet for the bare moment he intended to let go, he did. He engaged the water tap and it was immediate; he flinched at the sudden spray of lukewarm water against his own body.

He knew that was how one started such a treatment – cold would shock the system – but even that felt too cold. In opposition with the heat they had toiled under, it felt positively freezing.

If it was uncomfortable for him, it was far worse for Cee. The shock cleared her previous somnolence. She reacted, animal-like, trying to bolt away from the arresting discomfort of it before settling.

“Easy.” He said as her breathing quickened.

She sputtered as the water drained from her scalp and down into her eyes, into her mouth for all her movements. He held her even as she twisted to remove herself from the spray; it was a weak movement, one without any real bite behind it. He knew she understood it was necessary.

“Cold.” She said, simply and Ezra nodded as the water slid across his clothing, made him feel uncomfortably heavy and sodden. He hadn’t removed his flight-suit and it was still sand-clogged, dirty.

“I know.” He replied, as he looked over her head which nearly tucked under his chin. She closed her eyes against the spray, accepting that sensation which had likely transitioned from torture to relief.

Cee was facing him, was gripping his shirt with both hands. His arm remained where it had been from the start, palm spread over scapula. She relaxed a bit more, back hunched against the spray from above, and her head hung to avoid further intrusion.

Ezra hoped she’d keep her legs; there wasn’t much room for sitting.

It seemed as though she would, even as she began to drift forward. Her forehead made a soft _thunk_ as it met the wet fabric over his chest.

They stood like that for some time. Ezra couldn’t be sure how long it had been, having no way to measure the time, but he decided their attempt had been sufficient when heat no longer poured from her, when her forehead no longer felt as though it were trying to burn a hole through his shirt. When she began to shake, again, in earnest; not from fever, but from chill.

“Cee.” He said, fighting the urge to shudder over a sudden chill of his own. She may have said something, may have groaned some response, but he couldn’t hear it over the sound of the water-spray.

“That’s good enough. I’m gonna turn it off. You ready to go back?” He asked, despite the fact that she truly had little choice in the matter.

She nodded against him and he tapped the button; he’d have to run the extractor through the next cycles, a veritable drain on the already mishappen craft, and refill the tankard. They’d likely used quite a bit.

“Got your legs under you?” He asked not wanting to drag her bodily from the wet space without warning.

“Yeah.” She said, the most he’d heard from her in a good while. It was low, tired, but stronger than before when she’d sprung from sleep, intent on going _somewhere._

“Alright. I’ve got you. We’ll go slow, steady. If you need help, you feel worse, you say so. Hear me, birdie?”

“I hear you.”

It was without event or crisis that they made it back. It reminded him, unfortunately, of his own stumbling across the space; how she had put up with him, he would never know.

They did much of the same as before. He gave her another set of clothing, departed when he was sure she was understanding of the need to get out of another pair of sodden clothing.

“You decent?” He called from the hall and was rewarded with a very half-hearted, _uh-huh._ His own clothing chafed, felt horribly uncomfortable and heavy, but he could wait.

Ezra entered, pleased to see that she had gotten under the cover of her now overabundance of sleeping material, and sat at the edge of his own bunk. He watched, for a moment, before realizing she had dropped into veritable sleep.

He sighed; that had been too close. She could have easily gotten worse, could have tipped over into the realms of unmanageable.

His early-enough recognition of her condition and the medkit had been the only thing standing between her and an emergency. Still, he was immensely frustrated.

With himself. With the job. With the sandy hell that was this planet. With the continuously encroaching understanding that, if he were to mind her appropriately, he’d need to figure something _better_ out.

He was encroaching too far in, what to him, appeared to be Damon-territory. Jobs that were beyond their capacity. Jobs that incurred risks that he was no longer sure he was willing to take.

Ezra grabbed the thermometer, leaned in to take it.

**37.6 C.**

He sighed in genuine relief. He put the tool down, scrubbed his hand across his face. In that moment he was exhausted; the job had been rife with wear and tear. Cee hadn’t managed as well as he would have hoped – physically – and he was flagging a bit himself.

He knew he wasn’t one hundred percent. Not yet, if ever. Exertion had pulled at him, had set a tight thing in his chest, and he expected the dry climate was what had saved him from some vicious relapse.

Ezra had no doubt, _now_ , that Cee would be ok, that she’d overcome this, but he wasn’t sure he was willing to risk a repeat.

They could find employ easy enough, sure, but ones that preserved their health, pockets _and_ dignity? It was a big ask in the Black. More it was _uncommon_ , _unlikely_.

He watched her take even breaths, reached to feel her forehead again.

The data – the temperature reading and the lack of heat under his own touch – aligned.

“Kevva’s sake, girl.” He muttered more to himself than to her. Now, in the absence of real danger, he could admit that she had scared him.

The flush of her skin _still_ scared him but he knew, now, all it would do from here was peel spectacularly. He wouldn’t tell her, but he had considered pulling that chain code from its place taped to the pole of her bunk. Had considered calling that case manager, calling Filipa.

The thought had reminded him of things he’d never done, only seen in sap-dripping dramas or heard through lines of scuttlebutt: _parents_ acting fearful of those strange illnesses that struck their children down late at night. Caretakers panicking in the face of an unexpected malaise.

He’d tempered it but he still remained shocked, unimpressed, with the initial panic.

She’d bodily collapsed on the ramp and he’d nearly suffered his own fall, though, his would have been from a damn heart attack. The thought of something happening to her, being wrong with her, had fed into every insecurity, every concern he had regarding their partnership.

It was as though he’d been facing an accusatory finger – his own, Damon’s, Central’s – that waged furiously and said, _you’re not good enough for her._

Ezra was used to the uglier insults of his own demons, had gotten very good at ignoring them, but this – _this_ was hard to shake.

He had to do better. Old contacts floated through his mental scrapings, looking back for any reliable thing, any reliable option that would bring them means that suited that which Cee deserved.

Ezra sighed again, let his head fall back against the cool frame of his own bunk.

For now, he would have to take solace in the fact that she was before him, resting, well.

It would _have_ to be enough, for now, while he planned, thought further ahead than he had been for the fog of his near death. He couldn’t solve it all in this instant.

He’d find something _better_ ; anything for her.

* * *

Damon was there when she woke.

No, Ezra.

Cee came to when she heard the voice and, before she could stop, before she could grab hold of her surroundings and _understand_ them, she responded:

“I’m right here.” She sat up as she said it. By the time she arrived in position, back erect and palms supporting her weight, she was fully awake.

There was a long pause while Ezra looked at her, waited for her to say more. She mustn’t have been asleep long; his hair was still wet, absolutely disheveled, sticking up in all directions and curling at the ends. He’d at least changed into something dry.

“Did you go somewhere?” He asked, joking despite the seriousness of his expression.

He put down one of the craft’s atmo-filters. He’d been scraping of sand; it had gotten everywhere, and he’d mentioned, early on, that he’d have to do this: clean _all_ the filters.

It was the kind of work she was used to, monotonous maintenance; _where are you?_

“I … no …” She could remember what she’d been dreaming about, though, the more she thought about it, the more the details fled, slipping.

She’d been in the Green.

“I thought I heard something.” She said, looking down at her hands. She knew what – _who_ – had been calling out, asking, _where are you?_

It hadn’t been the first time she’d had such a dream. Usually, however, it dissipated, its vestiges hardly tangible upon waking.

Ezra didn’t say anything, merely watched. His brow was turned down in that small way that suggested he was worried; it was a thing so slight she’d missed it, a lot, in the beginning.

“I was dreaming. I’m fine.” She was.

“You sure?” _Yeah_ , she thought, even as her gut twisted; she reached for the water he’d put by her cot, took a long sip. It settled and she was grateful; she felt as though the line between okay and not okay was very slim.

“Yeah.” As she said it her heart fluttered; she could still feel the dregs of nightmare adrenaline.

She’d been running, searching, frantically trying to respond to the calls, _where the **hell** are you?_

“Hmm.” Ezra didn’t believe her, but she knew he wouldn’t say so.

She glanced up at him and found patience, _kindness._ It still startled her, sometimes, especially given their start.

“I just – I thought I heard something.” She repeated; it had been _loud_. Loud enough for her eardrums to have rung with it, for it to have bounced off a space it had never even occupied.

_Where. Are. You. Damnit?_

“What did you hear?” His voice was soft with it, that patience; she knew he was interested but it didn’t hold that selfish thing curiosity tended to. No, he wasn’t curious. He was genuinely interested and – all the same – willing to let it lay should she refuse him.

“Damon. My father.” Cee said; she didn’t know _why_ she had felt so compelled to say both his given name and his paternal title. It felt right, like maybe he had been two different people.

He’d felt that way, sometimes.

“Do you want to tell me more about it?” He asked after a moment and Cee shrugged.

She didn’t know. She didn’t really want to open that conversation this cycle; not on the trails of their first completed job together, not after that jag of sickness and confusion.

And, she still felt poorly despite the medication, the hydration packs.

She ached, dehydration still dogging her with body aches that would take cycles to resolve. Her head still throbbed in unison with her _skin_ ; ever inch that had been exposed felt raw, _was_ raw and red. She was aware of an itchy rash on her chest, a true torture as any attempt to relieve it hurt.

It _was_ an improvement, but she was exhausted by it, all of it.

“No. I –“ She paused looking for any sign that he was disappointed. Of course, there was none. Instead, the corner of his mouth lifted in a small smile.

“No.” Cee’s mouth quirked; she felt bad but didn’t know why. She felt like she _should_ tell him, even though the idea of talking about her nightmare, hallucination, whatever it was, felt exhausting.

Ezra didn’t look upset, didn’t look desirous of the information she held within. He looked fine with her decision, accepting.

“Are you okay?” He asked, voice lilting.

“Yeah. I’m okay.” Cee said returning the small smile he’d give her moments ago. He nodded, dusted his knees of sand and stood. He reached for the vessel on the platform by his own cot, handed it to her.

“Though, I imagine you could use some more water. You sound like a backwater-toad that got dried out after a molting.”

She crinkled her nose.

“You say the worst things.” she said as she took a sip.

She coughed over the way it ignited a slight burning sensation; her throat had become after her earlier period of sick.

“Careful, slow.” He reached towards her, ready to take it from her should she choke. She didn’t think she could swallow more _slowly_ though she knew what he meant. She had to pace herself, couldn’t rush her own recovery; she’d seen Ezra try that and it wasn’t something she was interested in doing herself.

Satisfied, she put the water down, peered back at him.

It was dark, now. Planetary night was far darker than their manufactured one, deep in the Black. The only thing that broke through the dark was the small work lamp, lit low, on the shelf attached to Ezra’s wall.

“It’s night?” Cee asked, knowing it was unnecessary, but still disturbed by the passage of time. The cycles were long on Saharn, during this part of its rotation – twenty-three chrono-hours of day, six of night – which meant she’d either spent the entirety of it sleeping or in a fever-haze.

“That it is, and I’m glad for it. The ships’ cooled down some and the extractor is finally producing some water.”

“That’s good.” It was, though, if it were night, that meant Ezra would be meeting with their employer again soon. She frowned against the idea of it.

“Don’t you have to meet him soon?” She cleared her throat again. “Kaylos?”

“Hmm –“ Ezra hummed, an affirmative. The mention of their employer made his expression drop into something irritated; he looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes, spit at the mere mention of his name.

“At first light. He’ll be here with the point-chip, as promised.” Ezra said it as though there simply were no other option.

Ezra moved the filters aside, dusted his pants of sand, and stood. He reached over to pull at one of the blankets she’d kicked to the end of her cot in her sleep. He dragged it back over her; he gave her a small grin as he dropped its end over her head.

She pulled it down, made the effort to roll her eyes at him.

“Go back to sleep, if you can. Take advantage of it while it lasts.” He meant the night; it _was_ much cooler, felt far less stifling.

The dark was also an incredible reprieve from the blinding glare of the sun. They’d had to wear dark goggles at the height of the long cycles. Ezra had warned her that one could, in fact, go sand-blind.

“Have _you_ slept?” Cee asked as she moved herself into a sitting position, not wanting to drift asleep again. It took some effort – every muscle ached, though less so than before – but she managed.

“Can spare a single night –“ He grabbed the cup she’d drained and with a quick word to inform her of his intention – “Refill” – he left the space.

Cee knew that, in a way that was uniquely Ezra, that meant _no._ At least he hadn’t lied about it, not that he made a habit of such things.

“What if he gives you trouble?” She shouted; her voice still held a rasp but it didn’t feel as tiring as she would have expected with the projection of it. The idea of him getting into some scrape of Points scared her, one-armed, or otherwise.

It wasn’t a ridiculous concern; she’d lost her father to the same.

The dream lingered in the back of her mind, reminded her with a whisper and her stomach felt sour.

“He won’t.” Ezra called back; she could hear the water running. She crossed her arms, unhappy with the answer. She agreed that the man didn’t seem the type to hold his own in a confrontation, but what if there were _others._

“What if it’s not just him?” Her voice cracked from the strain. _Where are you?_

She dug the heel of her palm into her right eye, headache still present. She wanted to wipe that dream from memory, wanted to shake, with force, the physical and emotional remnants it had left behind.

“A little more. Drink.” She opened her eyes with a start, looked up at him. He had the water-vessel in a three-finger hold, his pinky and ring finger curled around what might be a blister packet.

She took the water, drank deeply; this time it didn’t burn. It felt refreshing, good. She sighed as she finished.

“And this. For pain, fever, too.” He handed her the blister pack and she popped it open, threw the pill in her mouth.

“Cee.” He held up his hand, tilted his head in a way that suggested he was about to intervene in a line of questioning.

“You need to focus on recovering. You had a hard time of it and, selfish as it may be, it would put me at ease if you’d rest and leave this matter for later.”

She wanted to tell him she would be _fine_ , that she _was_ feeling better, but she realized, just before forming the words, that it wasn’t what he was asking of her.

He wasn’t worried that she wouldn’t be _fine_. He wasn’t interested in _would be._ He was asking her to mind the moments that led to it, towards ‘fine’.

She recognized it to be the same thing she’d wanted for him; a plea for another to care for _themself._

“Don’t leave without telling me.” She requested as she yawned. She _was_ tired again but – but sleeping sounded unbearable. Her heart still fluttered with its shrapnel, that of the dream that had woken her with such intensity.

She’d called out.

She’d come out of sleep confused, just long enough to _feel_ it.

“I won’t. I promise.” Ezra said as he took the water back from her, place it on her shelf; she could have done it herself, reached over and place it. But, the way he stood there, waiting, made her feel as though she didn’t have to make the extra effort.

It was an odd thing, knowing someone was there, anticipating her needs, eliminating all that _minutiae._

“Go on. You look whipped, birdie.” Cee nodded, tried to shake the feeling that she associated with being coddled. He wasn’t _coddling_ her, she reminded herself. He was helping her, just as she’d done for him.

She laid back down, pulled up the cloths, her gaze roving down to the double points of her feet, all to stare at nothing.

* * *

Ezra was tired.

He, too, was worried about Cee’s preoccupations, though there was nothing for it. It was a worry on top of a worry, compounding interest he wouldn’t be able to pay.

More than once he thought – realized, perhaps, though there was no one around to endorse the suspicion – that he was dragging her through the same motions Damon had. Was it any better for her, this life with him?

Was he not just pulling her from job to job? Was this life an unfortunate copy, just with a different, similarly ill-equipped person?

It was made more nuanced, troubling by her startled awakening. She’d surprised him, calling out like that, words clearly formed and articulate but the context completely lost and known only to her.

It had arrested his careful, frustrating brushstrokes over the stubborn, sand-caked filter. He’d pulled it, quickly, after she’d fallen into that deep sleep, intent on insuring that when the time came, they could leave without delay.

 _I’m right here_ , she’d said.

He tried not to trouble his own mind over what it had been in response to. If she didn’t want to tell him, he’d never know and that was a simple truth.

He felt as though he already knew enough as it were. He knew it had contained Damon. He knew it had upset her.

Was it built of some childhood memory? Or, was it something more recent, something for sinister? Had _he_ made an appearance, thrower held high and pointed at her?

Ezra cleared his throat and shook his head in a thought-arresting jerk. It wouldn’t do to wonder.

He wouldn’t – couldn’t - dissect it, not without forming opinions that may be unfair to her. Not without giving in to the easy decline of mental self-flagellation. All of that dangerous, unproductive.

He ran his hand through his hair, finally dry; he’d remember it, though.

Ezra gave Cee another appraising look. She didn’t appear to be sleeping too deeply, not like before, but her eyes were closed, and her breathing was an easy in and out. She was safe. She was _okay._

His eyes burned a bit; it _had_ been a long day and he could feel old aches from the fatigue of it. Pain in his right shoulder, his arm-that-wasn’t. An odd neuropathy in his abdomen. Lungs that _always_ threatened a fit but, thankfully, didn’t always _deliver._

He felt _old._

Ezra searched the room for a distraction, gaze finding the worn technical manual he’d found wedged in some empty space while dislodging one of the atmo-filters.

With a long, hard blink, he settled his attention on it.

Its clinical, boring prose, replete of any emotion or life, satisfied.

* * *

_Where **are** you?_

Cee flinched, jolted from what might have been sleep, maybe a doze. The space was quiet, immensely so, and suddenly she was filled with the cold feeling of being alone.

The light to her right pulled her attention, her eyes eager to consume something soft and warm. She looked over at Ezra, now sat on his cot.

Some time _must_ have passed.

He was looking down at some folded over paper, a manual or a book. She had never seen him sit and read like this. He’d always been preoccupied with some physical labor, some repair and, less and less recently, resting, shaking off the vestiges of illness.

Cee realized he hadn’t heard her stirrings of wakefulness.

She watched him a moment longer. The blonde patch appeared silver in this lighting and she stared; she’d yet to ask about it, kept forgetting to.

“What’re you reading?” She muttered, sleep still hovering as she blinked at him.

He didn’t startle at her intrusion. Maybe he _had_ noticed but had left her to it, had hoped she would fall back asleep. Or, maybe, he just didn’t startle that easily.

Ezra turned his head in a tired tilt, shook his head.

“You okay?” He asked, instead.

“Fine.” She was - an entire day spent resting had revived her, had pushed her past the acute stage of this malaise. 

Ezra looked as though he believed her, nodded as he put the book down.

“It’s nothing interesting, I assure you.”

“Tell me.” Cee said, the improvement of her symptoms leaving her hungry for stimulation, hungrier to fill the void her nightmare had left, the pockets of silence that felt too loud.

“It would put you right back to sleep.” He cleared his throat; his voice had taken on a tired rasp of its own. By her count this would be approaching twenty-four hours without sleep. She was certain they’d both done worse, but it was still unfortunate, exhausting.

And, she knew it had all been for her. The idea still made something shameful rise.

“That’s ok. I don’t mind.”

“Bored?” Ezra asked, small smile forming.

“Maybe.” Cee said; she was, though it was only half of it.

“That’s good, means you’re feeling better –“ Ezra smiled fully, looked at her in the dim light, “ – though, and I am sorry for saying so, but you’re still very, _very_ red.”

“So, the book.” She ignored him; she knew she was red. Her skin no longer felt as though it could burn her from the outside in. It no longer heated the cloths she laid on, turning them into suffocating, tortuous bundles.

But, it was still hot, still throbbed, still _burned_ ; she hadn’t burned like this since a hardly remembered trip to some tropical band near Central, a job involving ocean-weed harvesting, she thought.

She _knew_ she was red.

“A manual, actually. Dry, terrible stuff. Not something I would recommend any being spend time on.”

Cee frowned. That did sound boring. She considered, for a moment, asking if he’d want to give _The Streamer Girl_ a try before feeling suddenly self-conscious.

“Then tell me about … something else.” She wasn’t asking him to read anymore, but rather, to talk. She hoped it wasn’t so obvious, her intolerance of silence, of empty space.

“I have it on good faith that you think I talk too much.” Cee quirked her mouth; she wondered, latently, if Filipa _had_ told him after-all, as she promised, or if he’d just _known._

“You do.” She said, quick to the draw.

Then, hesitation. She didn’t know how to _ask_ for it. For those things that _comfort._

“But, sometimes, its … interesting.”

Ezra looked at her for a long moment.

“I can tell you _more_ about channel rats and their unusual mat –

“No. Not that.”

He smirked.

Teasing, he’d been teasing. Still, she didn’t trust he _wouldn’t_ go on some endless rant about channel rats. She’d borne one of those and it had been enough for her lifetime.

“What, then?”

“Tell me some poetry.” She asked, did her best to make it sound anything but timid; she couldn’t bear watching him come to understand how much she just wanted to hear something _nice_ , to hear him talk.

She _hated_ the vulnerable thing inside her that craved it so desperately in that moment.

She blamed the illness, the throb of her abused skin. She couldn’t sooth the pains of her body, but she could be lulled by distraction.

Suddenly, being alone – just as she had wanted – sounded a painful thing, as though it would _amplify_ her hurts. Looking back again into that yawning tunnel of memory, she could see that, perhaps, at some point she _had_ wanted the same from her father.

Ezra sighed, smiled and flung his head back in exasperation; he probably regretted telling her that. He’d been dying, after all. He probably had never expected to be bothered about it again.

“Really, birdie? Like I told you, it has been a good and long while –“ He droned, and she was surprised by how much he remembered in regards to their conversations in the Black. His memory couldn’t be _that_ bad. And he’d said it was what he’d wanted to do before, right?

“Come on.” She interjected even as he continued.

“ - I’m not sure I could do it justice and it would be unforgiveable to relay badly remembered prose.” Still, he looked as though he was thinking it all over, trying to reach it.

“I don’t care.” She said, now hungry for it.

He gave her another long look and then sighed, which turned into a yawn. His mouth snapped shut and he leaned back, looked as though he were thinking, _really_ thinking.

Cee watched, fascinated, as his demeanor changed; it was small, just enough to be seen and recognized by friendly eyes. He dragged his hand across his mouth, scratched at his stubble for a moment.

“Hmm.” He hummed and Cee felt as though she were witnessing some internal process of _remembering_. It stilled her lingering aches, the vague dizziness.

He sucked in a breath, expression turning softer than she’d ever seen when bent over the formation of words. She’d never seen such care poured into the formation of _talk._

**“We, while intent upon one object, already feel the pull of another –“**

Cee held her breath, not wanting to chance missing it for the distraction provided by her body; already the worse _enticed._

**“ – conflict is second nature to us, for, aren’t we always arriving at each other’s boundaries –“**

She didn’t know how he did it, but the lilt of his voice, the one that made it colorful and odd, lent to the prose; made her feel.

**“ – although they promised vastness, hunting, home.”**

He paused, breathed in.

**“As, when for some quick sketch, a wide background of contrast is laboriously prepared so that we can see it more clearly –“**

Her brow pinched, she blinked against it.

**“ – this truth: that we never know the actual, vital contour of our own emotions – “**

His voice dropped into something ponderous; her throat tightened over it. She’d never heard anything read, recited. She hadn’t known it to be a thing.

**“ – just what forms them from outside.”**

It _hurt_. How?

**“And who has not sat, afraid, before one’s heart’s curtains, _watched_ as it rose, the scenery of farewell –“**

She could feel her breath quickening. She stared at him in anticipation; he didn’t look back, his gaze fixed on the floor.

 **“ - knowing, if they, perilous, from behind the stars, took even one step down toward us –“**

She could feel it rising, meeting its terminal decline. She was already mourning its end; so much said in a space far too small for it.

**“ – our own heart, beating higher and higher, would beat us to death - ”**

She wanted him to stop right there, as if to prevent its resolution.

**“ – would ask, who _are_ you?”**

Cee laid there uncomfortably aware of that throat-tight feeling that spoke of gathering, swelling emotions.

_Who are you?_

She turned the words over, as she always did, and tried to pick them apart. It was slightly beyond her, but the impact was no less great for her inability to fully interpret, to pull at each phrase and understand it.

It could have been the softness, the gentleness of its telling. It could have been his particular timbre, the way his voice, low and vaguely gruff, filled the room. It could have been her fatigue, the emotions that had swarmed her that cycle, unexpected. It could have been any or all of those things.

Whatever _it_ was, it grabbed her. It grabbed her and embraced her; she’d never heard anything like it. She’d never felt held by voice nor words.

When she had gathered the sufficient strength, she looked at Ezra. His eyes were closed, head leaned back against the wall. He could be sleeping, could be thinking, could be – like her – basking in the weight of the words.

“That was – “ She hadn’t sufficient words. It frustrated her to near tears because the words had been resplendent; they deserved more than she could say, express.

“ – good.” Cee finished, lamely. It hurt to even _say._

Ezra hummed, agreeing.

If he thought her assessment meager, he didn’t say so.

For some time after, she forgot the aches in her body, the calling burn of her skin.

The words enveloped her.

* * *

Ezra was awake, had been, when the sun rose and lit the rock hopper from within.

Though tired and stiff, Ezra was content. Cee slept soundly before him, looked well, recovered of the worst of it. He didn’t want to wake her, but he had, indeed, promised to do so.

He would not back out of a thing so important.

“Cee.” He whispered, put his hand on her shoulder, a light touch. She hummed, eyes still closed; a small shift of her head told him she was listening.

He told her he would return shortly, shouldered their thrower – a last minute decision – and turned to leave.

But, a thought. He turned on his heels with the suddenness of a task just remembered.

He refilled her water, left it, along with nausea and pain medication on her cot-side shelf.

Then, for his own peace of mind:

He pressed his hand, gently, against her forehead. Warm, but naturally so.

He sighed – and thing of pure, exultant, _relief_ \- readjusted the thrower, and left.

* * *

Ezra was well into negotiating during her stirring.

When Cee woke, fully, it was to the feeling of having broken a fever.

Her skin still felt hot, easily chilled by the disturbance caused by her own movements, but she was no longer sweating with an insidious overheating. She eased herself up and swung her legs around, over the cot’s edge; her feet landed on cool metal, a surprisingly comforting sensation.

She yawned, stretched, tried to shake the lingering ills from her frame. She smacked her mouth, grimaced over the taste of it and looked around.

She was alone. She remembered Ezra waking her, saying he’d be back, and she was glad he had kept his promise; the quiet of the craft, its emptiness would have set something uneasy inside her.

She yawned again, still vaguely tired, and coughed over the still-there dryness of her throat. She looked over at the shelf, hoping there was at least a mouthful left – she couldn’t remember if she’d drained it – and was surprised, pleasantly so, to see it had been refilled.

The painkiller was an added bonus.

She downed the water, quickly, her stomach more desperate for intake than it was riotous and swallowed the pill; she’d never had such things waiting for her upon waking from a bout of sick before.

Tired of sitting, Cee stood; she was glad to see the bone-deep weakness she’d suffered the cycle before had resolved. She wasn’t sure she could stand another full cycle of that, especially a Saharnian one, long as they were.

And the embarrassment lingered.

She knew it was ridiculous but the whole affair had made her feel strangely vulnerable. She’d never felt that way before; she’d always born the indignity of illness alone, no one watching.

As far as she remembered, Ezra had been there the _entire_ time.

She had done the same for him, had been maddened by the idea of leaving for a single second, so, of course, she sympathized. But, when directed towards her, it felt –

\- she wasn’t sure; it was something she was afraid she would _need_ again. Something she hoped would if she were again to suffer such a thing.

It felt contradictory to everything she’d grown with, had come to expect. She wanted to shy away from it and embrace it, ask for it, all at once.

Cee shook the thoughts from her mind, unwilling to linger on that weird itch of vulnerability that had set under her skin.

With a tired stumble, she made her way to the refresher to relieve herself. She was quick, not wanting to spend any more time looking at her reflection as she washed her hand. The burn she’d acquired was incredible.

She looked _ridiculous._ Her blonde hair framed it in a way that drew attention.

It wasn’t _fair_ ; Ezra, if anything, looked like he’d acquired a healthy tan.

Next, the galley; it was with a shiver that she was mindful of the intense quiet. It was the first extended period of time alone she’d had in the craft, she realized.

Her stomach growled and she realized she hadn’t eaten since their morning meal a cycle or two ago; the idea of eating, while ill, had been grotesque. Now, though, she felt ravenous.

Cee pulled open one of their stores. She wasn’t feeling particularly energetic enough to actually reform something, let alone _cook_ , so she settled for a nutrition bar. She grabbed a second, certain Ezra, too, would be hungry when he returned.

She settled at the table and ate, slowly, carefully monitoring herself for any rising nausea. Cee sat there in the silence, listened to the terminal clicks and clunks the rock jumper tended to make when in standby.

Cee let her mind wander back to the late-night hours; she grasped for the words, the _poetry_ , he’d recited. She found herself disappointed when she couldn’t remember them well. His telling had been filled with words unfamiliar, the sentences formed in a way she’d never heard.

She remembered the final piece, though: _who are you?_

With the question lingering, made more of what it was asking so directly – she didn’t remember the prose _exactly_ , but she could remember what it was made of, how it had made her feel – she was struck with the desire to write.

She crossed back into their quarters, her step lighter now that’d she been fed, and grabbed her notebook; she thought about curling up in her cot, again, but decided she wanted to be in view of the hatch.

She collected her notebook and the second part in _The Streamer_ _Girl_ series – she had only made it halfway, was trying to savor it – and returned to the table.

Time passed without her noticing. She switched between writing and reading, pausing to glance up at the hatch door on occasion.

Though the writing relieved her of her boredom and satiated what had been awakened in her during their night-talk, she was developing a vein of worry. She would have thought him to have returned by now.

Just when she was about to give into the slow drip of panic, the rock jumper creaked, it’s doors and ramp having been activated. Cee set her book down – a spate of reading – and stood, bent to peer out into that widening shaft of light.

“Birdie, you’re up –“ Ezra said, smiling despite his own scorched rasp, as he walked up towards her. He pulled at the sun-goggles, dragging them from his face with a blink and a crinkle of his features. He tossed them to the side, in some corner, as he made it inside, clearly _over_ the whole experience.

“Yeah.” she said as she turned away from him, went to grab a glass of water for him. She placed it on the table, next to the nutrition bar.

“I’m feeling much better.” She added because she knew he would ask anyway.

“Good. Good, I’m glad, but take it easy, okay?” Ezra said still clearly _worried,_ even as he sluggishly slapped the button that would lock them back inside; the air that had made it in had been shockingly _hot._

Her skin bristled uncomfortably.

“That man –“ Ezra started as he shuffled into the space, hand reaching to relinquish his shoulder the small burden of the thrower. He placed it against the wall and all but collapsed into the chair at the table, “ – is immensely unpleasant.”

“Everything go ok?” Cee rasped from her own seat; she imagined if it hadn’t he wouldn’t have returned _at all._

Still, he looked tired and ruffled. His hair was wind-whipped and more disheveled than she’d ever seen it post-Central. His flight suit was thoroughly sand-encrusted and she could see he had some plastered to the skin of his face, neck.

A mighty wind must have kicked up that cycle, though, she knew she must have slept through it; she didn’t remember hearing it batter the walls of their craft.

“It did. Our hard-earned points have been secured – “ He reached into one of his pockets, pulled out the stick and placed it gently on the table, “ – though it took some wrangling, and _far more_ discourse than necessary.”

Ezra huffed, dragged his hand through his hair; Cee couldn’t help her own small puff of amusement as sand came loose, fell to the floor with small _tinks_.

“Put this one on our blacklist, birdie.” He said, and she knew he meant the entire planet. She was okay with it.

Understanding he wasn’t about to get all the sand off his person, he gave up, looked back up at her and, for the first time, noticed the packet, the water.

“Perfect. Thank you.” He said as he grabbed for the water, finished it in a single motion.

“You get some rest?” He asked as he tore into the nutrition bar; she’d opened it for him while he’d been drinking. He chewed greedily and she suspected he hadn’t eaten much the past cycle either.

“Mmm-hmm. Still tired, though.” She groused, unimpressed with herself; how could she _still_ be tired. Still be achy, even if she had improved.

“Yeah, your body needs time. Don’t push it today, stick to the basics. Rest when you think you need to.”

Cee scrunched her nose in distaste, though, she knew he was speaking from experience. It made the advice easier to swallow, easier than that which was usually delivered to her by her father: advice that seemed to have little personal experience at its foundation.

He finished the bar, took a long breath, a longer exhale and closed his eyes as he leaned back. He rolled his neck of a kink and settled into a position that looked moderately more comfortable.

It was without any particular feelings of celebration or fanfare that she realized that they had just officially completed – in its entirety, the points sealing the deal - their first job together.

“Ezra?” She asked, not wanting to disturb whatever rest he was trying to snatch sat there in the chair, but wanting, all the same, to clear the air.

His brow lifted as his eyes opened; he looked _very_ tired.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –“ She shook her head, quirked her features into something uncertain, “ – to mess it up, our first job.”

Perhaps they could have finished the whole affair the day before. Maybe, without her sudden sickness, they would already be back in the Black.

Ezra didn’t say anything, despite the pinch of his brow that suggested he wanted to.

“It won’t happen again.” She shook her head in a negative; she’d do better next time, would keep a more careful eye on _herself._

“Cee, I want to cover some ground here –“ He said, moved again to lean forward; he winced as his back caught and she felt badly for it. He probably just wanted to sleep.

“ – you don’t need to apologize, especially for a thing like that.“ He nodded at her as if to implore her to understand.

She _knew_ he was right, but it was still a miserable idea: that she’d compromised the job in anyway.

“That was well out of your control, so put it to rest and focus on feeling better, doing what it takes to get there –“

He reached up to rub at a kink in his shoulder, the right side; she wondered if it was a conscious decision or if he was subconsciously remembering his own hurts.

“ – trust me on this one, birdie.”

“Ok.” She said, mind still turning. He gave her a small, slightly sad smile, ever worried that she hadn’t heard him.

“But – I am sorry, not for – for being sick,” It felt shameful to say, as though she weren’t capable of both being sick and _known_ to be sick. It had been so easy, in her childhood, to have suffered invisible, unseen.

“It’s just. I appreciate it. I’m not, I wasn’t used to –“ Cee trailed off, not really sure how to phrase it without evoking that shame-filled sensation of being made something infantile; _being taken care of,_ and _being helped_ , and _being nursed back to health_ , all felt humiliating to her.

She hadn’t a clue as to why.

He didn’t fight her, didn’t try to coax more from her. He certainly didn’t endorse the inner monologue she was entertaining; didn’t say anything that made her feel more the child than she already was.

Rather:

“I know, birdie. I wasn’t either.”

And, of course. _Of course_ he knew.

She’d never thought much about it, his willingness or unwillingness to be so terminally dependent on someone else; on _her._ She’d been so desperate to help, to do something about his deteriorating condition that such a thing had never crossed her mind.

It was no small realization. She suddenly understood his attention to have been made of the same thing: a genuine desire to see a person well, _cared_ _for_.

Her embarrassment, the uncomfortable churning in her gut, settled a little over this new understanding.

She felt as though she could live with it, even if the idea of retching violently in front of him, standing limp and tired under the water, tossing and turning in her sheets, still made her feel self-conscious and slightly mortified.

“I _am_ glad you’re feeling better.”

“Thanks.” She smiled, some of that embarrassment falling away at the sincerity in his tone. The warmth in his brown eyes, shadowed as they were by fatigue.

“Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to make an undoubtedly futile attempt to get this sand off me and lay down a tic.” He stood, lengthened his figure in a one-armed stretch and ambled towards the refresher.

“Wake me if you need anything, okay?” He said it in passing, but the tone was serious, imploring.

“Okay.” Cee nodded, realizing, if she _did_ need anything, she could – would – ask for it. That he meant it. In that moment she was grateful to know him; it was a thing that filled her with unexpected warmth.

From there the cycle passed with far less drama than the previous.

Ezra kipped in his bunk while she read, wrote; it was a short thing, but it carried him through the rest of the Saharnian daylight.

With the remainder of the light, they set themselves to easy tasks. He’d finished his previous work with the filters, while Cee uploaded the points from the stick. It was a lengthy wait, their connection with the server tenuous.

Cee caught a late-day bout of dizziness, of nausea and achiness, but it was more a thing of needing rest. Ezra had told her as much, even as he hovered. He’d told her it could be days, yet, that she would feel normal again, that her body was still hard at work.

The night-hour arrived quickly and was a welcome thing. With the work they’d put in – Ezra, mostly – they would be able to launch come sidereal sunrise.

They’d settled, both lounging in their cots, exhausted but awake.

“Tell me another one. Another poem.” Cee said, suddenly, from her veritable nest. Ezra had allowed her to keep one of his and it had allowed her to form an impressive pile. She pulled one around her shoulders, notebook open in front of her but abandoned for the moment.

“You’re really testing my memory here, Cee, and I don’t appreciate being made to feel so advanced in years.” He groaned with a soft chuckle; he’d been laying there, silent, eyes-closed.

“Old.” She rolled her eyes but grinned all the same.

“Old.” He repeated, his voice filled with that form of amusement – _genuine_ \- she seemed so capable of pulling from him.

“I want to write it down this time.”

“Write it down?” He opened his eyes, looked over at her with a questioning expression.

“I – I want to be able to write like that. So, I need to write it down.”

“Well, I can’t deny you that.” He said before taking another moment – just as he had before – to collect something.

Then, he spoke.

She didn’t write any of it down. It was too hard to capture while simultaneously enjoying it. Her pen had hovered, ready, but she’d abandoned the task quite immediately. Nearly, as soon as he began to speak.

The theme of his chosen – or perhaps, simply, remembered – piece was life, _identity._ She closed her eyes so that she may imagine the words, the imagery that wrapped around them. It, again, in a different formation, alternate elocution asked of her, _who are you?_

She listened whilst responding, hosting an internal dialogue that only soothed. She forgave herself some things while he spoke, the words lending a kindness to her own self-assessments. She felt emotions swell positively as she thought over the past cycles, so many things learned, newly understood.

She felt warm, loved, _loving_ ; its giving tendrils seemed to spill out of her. Approaching sleep, she wouldn’t understand it for what it was, not for a while yet.

Emotional, pleasantly so, she drifted.

It was to his strange, marvelous words that she fell asleep.

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be short. Sorry, ya’ll.
> 
> Notes on the job: What were they doing on Saharn? 🤷
> 
> Notes on Cee: Remember, Cee is a kid and kids – as I’ve learned in the ER – are embarrassed about every damn thing. Especially if it relates to bodily functions. 
> 
> Notes on heat exhaustion and sun poisoning: let me tell you, these are both miserable. Living in Louisiana, I treat people for it constantly. However, I have, once, experienced it myself. Oh, the abject misery. You desire to crawl from your own skin. Nothing feels good. You’re an irritable bitch for days and are in a near constant state of fever and nausea. These illnesses are often underplayed, but Kevva, I wish it on no one. I made this an acute episode, mainly because there is plenty of whump coming in future chapters of another story, and, because, as a rule, I don't do drawn out, tortuous physical whump on minors. I just don't.
> 
> What Ezra gives her in the back of the arm is, essentially, a subcutaneous saline injection/bolus. It would be unreasonable to think our boy could start an IV without training, let alone one-handed. This is something that is actually done in medicine (both human and veterinarian) and is called hypodermoclysis. I’ve only done this a handful of times and almost all of those times have been in the field in countries that were resource poor/did not have IV equipment on hand. In the States it is mostly used in palliative care and on the elderly (notoriously hard sticks/high risk sticks). 
> 
> Notes on Rilke: the poem Ezra recites is actually two poems stitched together; Rilke talked a lot about God and I interrupted a small sliver of the poem because of it. I only did so to maintain the world-building. The poems are from the second and fourth elegies. I also changed some of the wording, though, it could be argued I reinterpreted it from the original German; the only changes I made in that respect were to do with the use of prepositions. 
> 
> I bolded it in case you wanted to read it, uninterrupted by narrative.
> 
>   
> I’d make a Spotify playlist for this, but it would literally be Dolly Parton’s ‘9 to 5’ over and over, which isn’t very respectful to Cee or Ezra, but, I’d add a song about physical misery right in the middle to recognize her ordeal. 
> 
> These two are just trying their best with their shitty space 9 to 5. 
> 
> Ah, who cares what I do: https://open.spotify.com/playlist/14LnXufgqEcO0gVNfXZTg2?si=x8vJDQTXT-maez0YG8w_vw
> 
> It is completely dissonant with the tone of the story, but sometimes you need to give in to your own weird humor. Thanks to @the-streamer-girl for the ridiculous picture.
> 
> For anyone who wants a song that is very much so a Cee song, try: She by Alice Phoebe Lou. I added it to the Perilous playlist; the song is genius and space themed.
> 
> Of course: 
> 
> Thank you to all who read, bookmark, kudos, comment, or come to talk to me on Tumblr. I am a pretty useless Tumblrite, but ya’ll have been immensely fun. A special thank you to the lurkers, the quiet readers, and all those who are just passing through – I see you and you are loved.
> 
> Until next time, space cowboys.


End file.
